


For A Good Man

by syrenpan



Series: Arthur/Danse stories [9]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Courser, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Matchmaking, Romance, Scars, hidden past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-06 01:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8729899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrenpan/pseuds/syrenpan
Summary: Danse may have forgotten his past as an Institute Courser, designation M7-97, but Moira Dawson hasn't. When he shows up on her doorstep with a dying Arthur Maxson slung over his shoulder, she finally has a chance to repay an old debt. But of course, Arthur and Danse make her work for it.





	1. M7-97

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a prompt drabble for prompt "Come over here and make me" with Danse/Maxson as requested by Tess. But it started to have a will of its own, and this is where we are.

Moira Dawson had lived in this godforsaken corner of the Commonwealth going on fifteen years now, and people knew her as a healer of sorts. Some even called her a witch, but never to her face because they couldn’t be sure whether they might need her help the next day.

You got a bad case of the runs – go, see Moira. Itchy rash – Doc Dawson is who you want. Mild case of rads, simple fracture, cough, bullet wound – you name it. Folk knew she would help them out – if the price was right.

Never had any trouble since she had established herself because she made a point of not judging people. Farmers, raiders, Gunners, ghouls, hell, she had even treated a supermutant once; they were all people to her. Because that’s how she wanted to be treated herself.

She hadn’t thought of Day One in a long time, but fifteen years on, a fiery harbinger appeared in the sky. The explosion over Boston Harbor was visible for several miles around. And by nightfall, he came trotting up the road, clanking like a whole Mr Handy factory with each step, carrying another man in a singed, black bodysuit over his shoulder.

When he came to a halt a few paces away, he carefully lowered his charge to the ground; the other man didn’t even make a sound.

He wasn’t wearing a helmet just a hood but she recognised him at once. Like her, he had barely aged from what she could tell under all the muck and grime on his face.

“We need help. You’re a healer?” His voice sounded tired but it was his – the cadence unmistakable. She’d always thought he sounded too emotional for a Courser, and she had been right.

She nodded, “That’s me. Moira Dawson’s the name, but most people call me Doc.” She pointed at the insignia on his armor, “You with the Brotherhood?”

He barked a short, bitter laugh, “Of what’s left of it. I’m Paladin Danse. Please, the…,” he hesitated.

Moira raised an eyebrow, “Well?”

He didn’t say it out loud but she could see him mouthing - “Fuck it!” 

“The Elder needs your help. He got caught in the blast, you saw it?”

The second eyebrow joined its twin high up on her forehead, “Aye, I saw it. Well, you’d better bring him inside.”

Danse narrowed his eyes at her, hand twitching toward the laser rifle clipped to his hip.

“What? You want my help or not?”

He nervously licked his lips. “You’re not asking for caps up front?”

If she had had any doubt he had forgotten her, it was wiped out this very instance, just like his memory. She scratched the bridge of her nose and clicked her tongue to cover up her shock. Not that he didn’t remember her, but that she was surprised by the fact nonetheless.

A part of her had never relaxed, never believed, always slept with one eye open – a sensible policy in the Commonwealth anyway – but even more so for an escaped synth. However, M7-97, former Courser of the Institute and her saviour, had not the faintest idea she owed him not only a favour, but her life.

“It’s your lucky day. It just so happens, I owe you – the Brotherhood that is – big time.” She walked back onto her porch and motioned for him to follow. He was still eyeing her with a suspicious look.

“Danse, was it?” He nodded. “Danse, put it this way, can your Elder afford to be picky with his allies at this point?”

She watched him shake his head and had to bite the inside of her cheeks to keep from laughing. Her words, his reaction, the very mirror image of what had happened a long time ago, only it had been M7’s line and N8-73’s response.

N8-73 – she hadn’t thought of her designation in a decade. Moira shook her head to shake off the memories, clawing at her like hungry mongrels, begging for attention. She sternly shoved them aside and focused on the man who was now lying on her kitchen slash examination table.

She only looked up when the shadow of Danse blocked the light, and she had to tell him to make himself useful or get out. He had taken off his Power Armor and hood which if anything made him look even more impressive. M7 had always been - and still was - a fine looking man, but she couldn’t afford to get distracted, she had a life to save. 

The better part of two hours later, Arthur Maxson was breathing evenly. His upper body, arms and half his head covered in bandages. They had to cut the suit off of him, part of it had fused with the skin on his right arm. Danse had gagged and retched, but stayed by his Elder’s side nonetheless, helping Moira fix the mess as best she could. She smiled inwardly. M7-97 had always been dependable in a crises.

Maybe there were parts so deeply ingrained in a person, no memory wipe could ever erase? Maybe she should have given it a go herself? Then again, the Elder would have probably breathed his last breath about an hour ago, had she gone through with it.

“He’s as good as I can make him at this point. The rest is up to him,” she exclaimed, wiping sweat off her brow with the back of her wrist while glancing at Danse who was staring at the sleeping man. They had moved Maxson to a narrow bed – one of four she kept for in-patients. The others were unoccupied at the moment.

“Come on, Danse, let him rest.” He didn’t seem to hear her.

There was something in his eyes, the way he looked at the other man. Moira took a deep breath.

“Oh, I see,” she said quietly. He did look at her then, surprise and guilt reflected on his face, like a boy caught with his hand in the Sugar Bomb box.

Even through the dirt, she saw him flush. “I...he’s…,” he stammered before he gave up with a dejected sigh.  

She patted him on the arm. “Come, he really needs to rest,” she sniffed, “ugh, and you need a bath.”

While Danse washed himself, Moira cooked and checked on her patient now and then. She had found Danse some old farmhand clothes - worn but clean - which he had gratefully accepted.

When he joined her for dinner, she had to remind herself to not stare at him, but it was difficult. Clean, hair still damp and slicked back, he looked so much like the M7 she remembered, Moira’s heart began to race.

She was grateful he had grown a beard or else she might have given into her fight or flight response which seemed to be as sharp as ever when faced with a Courser, even one who had been an ally and couldn’t remember her, or himself for that matter.

Food was a useful distraction and after they had cleaned away the dishes, Moria found she had relaxed again. Danse had given her an update on the situation in the Commonwealth.

“So, you’re saying, you’re all that’s left of the Brotherhood because that friend-,” she saw him flinch and corrected herself, “former brother-in-arms betrayed you?”

Danse raked his hand through his hair and automatically glanced into the darkness where Arthur was still sleeping.

“Up here? Pretty much.” His gaze turned sharp, “Which means you won’t have to worry about any more soldiers knocking on your door, trying to call in that old favour. What was it again you said the Brotherhood had done for you?”

She smirked at him, “I didn’t.”

You can take the Institute out of the Courser, but you can’t take the courser out of the synth it seemed.

Danse chuckled. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“What difference would- he is awake.”

Moira and Danse got up at once.

“Arthur?” Moira glanced at the Paladin, his face soft, eyes huge and worried as he looked at the man on the bed. Danse reached out, fingertips brushing against the bandage on Maxson’s arm but snatching them away almost immediately when the Elder turned his head.  

“Danse?” Maxson tried to sit up and winced when his body protested.

“I’m here.”

“Lie still, please!” Moria rushed in, pushing Danse out of the way and gently pressing a hand against Arthur’s chest.  

“I patched you up, but you’re going to be sore for a few days. Stimpak can only do so much. Your-,” she hesitated for a second before she decided to play it safe and continued, “your _friend_ saved your life, young man,” Moira explained, and watched out of the corner of her eye when the Paladin blushed again.

“Status?” Maxson asked, voice raw.

“What, not even a ‘thank you’?” she huffed, forcing him to acknowledge her existence while she checked the bandages.

“What? Uhm. I-,” the rest of the sentence was drowned out by a coughing fit. A smoker – she could tell by the sound; his body was craving a cigarette.

“Easy there, don’t ruin my good work by dying now. No smoking in here, though. You can have one as soon as you can sit out on the porch,” she remarked and smirked at him when he shot her a surprised look and then nodded.

“Danse? What’s the situation?” Arthur rasped once he got his breathing under control. 

The Paladin stepped closer again. Moira could see the man’s whole body practically shouted, “I want to touch you and tell you it’s all going to be alright.” But he didn’t. Hands balled into fists, Danse stood stiffly at his Elder’s side and gave him the depressing news.

When the Paladin had finished, Arthur closed his eyes. “Understood,” he sighed and sank back into oblivion.

“I’ll be here if you need me, sir,” Danse murmured quietly before he pulled up a chair and took up station next to Maxson’s bed. Moira shook her head and let them be for now.

She stepped onto the porch to light up a cigarette. A filthy, hypocritical habit for a healer, but she had decided everyone was entitled to a few vices.

Fifteen years. Apart from a crushing defeat in the war against the Institute, M7-97 seemed to have done well for himself. She smiled at the stars, exhaling the comforting fumes.

He had known this day would come. He had known their path would cross again, and he would need her help. That’s why he went for the memory wipe but not the face swap – a high risk for someone on the run from the Institute.

“I will see you again,” had been his parting words, and now here he was sitting in her house next to the man he so evidently loved. Unfortunately, the Elder was either oblivious of his soldier’s feelings, or didn’t return them.

If it was the latter, there was hardly anything to be done about it. Moira had the reputation of a witch, but sadly not the skills. However, if Maxson was simply unawares, well...

She flicked the cigarette butt into the night and went back inside.


	2. The Young King

It took another day before Arthur could leave the bed, and even then he only did it because Moira refused to let him smoke inside.

Except for changing bandages, Danse had taken over caring for Maxson without a single word and without so much as a ‘thank you’ from the patient who seemed to be lost in thought most of the time.

“Was there anything else?” 

Maxson shook his head without looking at the Paladin as he greedily sucked on his cigarette. 

“I will go chop firewood, please call if you need me,” Danse remarked before he took his leave.

Moira stepped onto the porch and shook a cigarette out of a new pack. 

“Feeling any better?” she muttered around her smoke. 

Arthur didn’t bother to look at her and shrugged. She rolled her eyes at him as she perched on the railing. The Elder seemed to be determined to ignore her, seemingly staring at nothing while he smoked. 

Moira studied his profile. A handsome man, strong features, intense, blue eyes, interesting scars, which made him look older than he undoubtedly was. She could see why M7 was attracted to him form a purely aesthetic point of view, however, the Elder’s behaviour left a lot to be desired for so far.

“How old are you?” 

The question made him look. He hesitated in mid-motion, cigarette suspended an inch away from his lips, before he overcame the surprise and replied, “21.” 

“Explains the attitude,” Moria retorted and enjoyed how his eyes narrowed in obvious annoyance. 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You look like a man but you behave like an ungrateful brat.”

“Excuse me?” He blinked at her. 

Moira blew out the comforting fumes. “You heard me.”

Arthur took a deep breath, eyes fixed on a point in the distance before he focused on her again. “I appreciate all you’ve done for the Brotherhood, for me. Rest assured you’ll be reimbursed for your trouble. I trust this resolves the matter in question?” 

She snorted. “Aye, caps would be nice, I won’t say no. But I was not referring to myself.” Moira turned to look over her shoulder.

Arthur followed her gaze until his eyes landed on Danse, lifting an ax over his head and bringing it down in a powerful arch. The crash of splitting wood resonated all the way to their spot on the porch, startling a crow from its vantage point atop the husk of an old car. 

“If it weren’t for him, there wouldn’t have been any work for me at all. Do you get me?”

Maxson said nothing. Eyes pretending to be distracted by the crow’s departures and sucking the last life out of his cigarette before he flicked the bud away. 

“I’m tired,” he announced and tried to stand. 

“I’ll get Danse,” Moira offered but Arthur muttered, “Don’t bother, I need to do this alone.” 

She watched the pained expression on his face as he finally managed to stand, sweat already clinging to his forehead. His jaw clenched as he willed his body to move one agonising step at a time. He was going to lose the struggle but Moira knew better than to try and help him. 

“Ah fu-“ 

“I got you,” Danse said, catching Maxson before he could crash onto the floorboards. Moira was impressed. She hadn’t even notice him until he was already next to them. For a split second the image of M7-97 appeared before her eyes - the way he had been before he had found his humanity - and she shuddered. Thankfully, neither men in the present seemed to notice. 

Arthur said nothing and hung his head as Danse half-carried him back into the house. 

*~*

A couple of days passed by in the same fashion, Arthur would make little trips outside to smoke but said very little and ate even less, no matter how hard Danse tried. 

Moira watched their interaction with a heavy heart because both men were suffering albeit for slightly different reasons. The solution seemed plain as day to her but neither of them seemed to be able to see it. 

“We can leave these off now,” Moira announced, dropping the last batch of used bandages onto the end table next to the bed. She carefully touched the marred skin on his right arm and part of his chest and shoulder. She grunted, satisfied with the progress.

“Some of these will fade over time, but most of them will stay with you for the rest of your life.”

“Good!” 

Moira stopped poking the skin and raised an eye-brow. “Is that so?”

Arthur swallowed as he stared at the scars on his arm. “They will remind me not to be so careless and trusting again.”

She couldn’t argue with that. “I suppose they will.” 

Moria reached for his face and turned it toward her. They had shaved off his beard - the bits that hadn’t been singed off already - to be able to treat the skin underneath. Corse stubble was already covering most of the surface around the scars - old and new.

For the first time, Arthur seemed to really acknowledge her. With a small spark in his eyes, he asked, “How bad is it?”

She understood what he meant. He had not looked in a mirror since he had arrived. She clicked her tongue and said, “Why don’t you judge for yourself?” 

She stood up and retrieved a very old-fashioned hand mirror from a drawer. Arthur took it without hesitation and looked. The right side of his jaw, his ear and all along the hairline, the skin had puckered, looking like a criss-cross of ancient tree roots. 

“Well, now she has company,” he said eventually, tossing the mirror onto the bed. 

“She?” 

A wry smile played around Arthur’s mouth as he gestured to the huge, old scar on his right cheek. “The souvenir from the deathclaw matriarch.” 

“No bandages?” Danse suddenly asked from the threshold.

Arthur glanced passed Moira’s shoulder at the Paladin before he quickly returned his gaze to the bed. Moira frowned, and turned to say, “Aye, the rest will heal faster without being covered up. He just looked in the mirror for the first time. What do you think, Danse? Still handsome?”

Danse’s eyes grew wide and he straightened from his relaxed pose. Arthur gaped at her, a slight blush creeping into his cheeks. Moria pretended not to notice and asked, “Well?” 

“Eh- You look healthier, Elder. Glad to see you’re on the mend,” Danse replied gruffly before he added, “I- if you don’t need me right now, I was going to hunt something for dinner.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “That will be all. Dismissed.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

Moira listened to Danse’s hastily retreating steps before she turned back to Arthur, put her chin into the palm of her hand and sighed at him.

He did a classic double-take when he noticed, “What?”

She sighed again for effect and said, “Oh, nothing.”

He frowned at her. “Sounds like a big nothing.” She was about to respond when he added, “Never mind, I don’t care!” 

And before she could say anything else, he grabbed his plait shirt and pushed passed her and out of the door. 

Moira stared at the Arthur shaped hole in the room and grumbled, “I wonder what he sees in you,” before she started to tidy up. 


	3. Loyalty

It felt good to be able to stretch his legs again after days of nothing but hobbling around the house. He didn’t have a destination in mind - just out, away from that shrew who called herself a doctor and the stench of that place she called a clinic, but was barely more than a glorified shag. 

Arthur stopped to roll up his sleeves when he heard a growl and a crunch as if something heavy had stepped on a dry branch. He froze and cursed himself for having left without a gun. He crouched down and pulled his combat knife from his boot, eyes on the trees. 

Two minutes passed but all remained quiet. Another minute and normal ambient sound resumed. Whatever had walked passed had evidently no appetite for human today. 

“I should go back,” he told himself but another voice inside him asked, _“For what? Where?”_

Arthur snorted and kept on walking, combat knife in hand. He tossed the blade in the air and caught it by the handle almost on autopilot. It seemed despite the outer damage on his right arm, the nerves and muscles remained intact. 

“Maybe she isn’t half as bad as her demeanour,” Arthur conceded, flexing his muscles. It barely hurt any more. 

His head snapped up when he heard a throaty growl and the yapping of angry dogs close by. But that wasn’t the only sound, there was a tell-tale yell of human origin in the mix, spurning Arthur’s body into action even before his brain had reached the conclusion he ought to do something. Branches hit him as he ran through the undergrowth and out into a clearing. 

Danse stood legs apart, carefully balancing his weight. He held his knife in front of him, not taking this eyes off the three remaining mongrels which circled him cautiously, waiting for an opening to attack.

Arthur’s arrival didn’t go unnoticed. Danse looked up in surprise and lost his focus. The three predators pounced as one. 

“Fuck!” 

Arthur ran over but before he had even reached the group, Danse had sliced through the throat of the first attacker, warm blood spraying across his chest, staining his borrowed shirt. The second one latched onto Danse’s arm, teeth puncturing the skin, but Danse simply stuck the knife between the dog’s eyes, dropping the dead body and his weapon before snapping the neck of the third. 

It all happened so fast and with so little sound, Arthur would have thought it has been a dream if it weren’t for Danse cradling his injured arm as he walked toward where Arthur had stopped dead in his tracks, leaving skit marks on the wet ground. 

“What are you doing here?” Danse cried, not quite keeping the irritation out of his voice. “You’re supposed to rest.”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “Watch you tone, soldier! After all, I came to help you.”

Danse stood in front of Arthur, breathing heavily through his nose. Anger and irritation made room for embarrassment on the Paladin’s face. 

“I apologise, Elder. It was just that I hadn’t expe-“

“Don’t call me that!” Arthur growled back. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“I have no right to that title any more,” Arthur mumbled. He didn’t look at Danse but instead grabbed the soldier’s injured arm and inspected it before he ripped the sleeve off of his own shirt and bandaged the would with it. Danse didn’t even think to resist and just stared at him, mouth agape. 

“There,” Arthur declared when he had finished the make-shift wound dressing. “We need to get you a stimpak.” 

“It’s just a scratch,” Danse replied absentmindedly, still staring. 

Arthur gave him a look.,“Yes, because frothing at the mouth is such an attractive look!” he retorted tartly. 

“Uhm…” 

They stared at each other in mutual embarrassment. Arthur wasn’t sure whether it was just his imagination but he thought Danse looked a bit more flushed than he had a minute ago. Arthur’s eyes were drawn to Danse’s parted lips, the tip of his tongue just visible as he licked them, leaving a wet sheen behind. 

“I…sorry, but what did you mean by that?” Danse asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. 

Arthur’s eyes darted back to Danse’s own, which were a warm shade of brown, and looked back at him in confusion.

 _What had he meant by that?_  

Arthur wasn’t certain but he was certain he had never noticed before how damn good-looking the Paladin was. Good-looking and fast - so very fast. Come to think of it, he had never seen Danse fight without his Power Armour before. Maybe it gave him more height and protection, but from what Arthur had seen, Danse didn’t need it to be a force to be reckoned with. 

Paladin Danse, brave, and capable, and loyal to a fault. Loyal to the Brotherhood - _loyal_ _to him_. Arthur’s hands automatically tightened on Danse’s arm who hissed in pain. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Arthur let go and stepped back.

Danse tried to smile but it ended in a grimace. “I’ll be fine!” 

“I bet that’s what the mongrel thought, too, and look where he ended up. Attacking a man who took down three of its kind without even blinking. How could we ever lose-“ Arthur snapped his mouth shut and turned on his heel.

He didn’t even look back when Danse ran after him. 

_“Because I failed them! I failed them all!”_

When they had reached the house, Arthur stomped past Moira and inside, slamming the door in the process. 

The doc looked from the door to Danse and back. “What crawled up his ass and died?” 

Danse sighed as he stepped onto the porch. “He’s just tired.”

“Uh hn,” she gave Danse a look that suggested she wasn’t buying it.

Danse just stared back at her until she eyed his bandaged arm. “Let me take a look at that.”

He tried to cradle it closer to his chest, “It’s fine. Just a- humpf.” But Moira had already closed the distance between them and was not so gently forcing him to stretch it out so she could inspect the damage.

She clicked her tongue. “Doesn’t even need stitches. Still gonna stimpak it, though.”

“There is no need. It’s just a-“ 

“Rabies are not sexy, Danse,” Moira explained matter-of-factly. 

He chuckled, “Ha! That’s what Arthur said.”

She gave him a sly smile, “Did he now?” 

Danse nodded as she crouched down to rummage around in her knapsack which happened to be sitting on the porch.

“Yeah, or something like that. I wasn’t paying close attention to be honest because I thought he had said he wasn’t the Elder any more, and clearly, I must have heard him wrong.” 

Moira straightened up with a stim in hand. She was ready to inject it when she stopped, “Hold on! He made a pass at and you weren’t even listening?” 

Danse stared at her. “What? No! He just…that wasn’t… Are you saying you were propositioning me just now?”

Moira rolled her eyes - _gee gods, M7_ \- and jammed the needle under his skin, “No, Danse. I was being sarcastic. But, maybe your Elder is starting to see you as more than just another soldier?” 

Danse flushed scarlet, his eyes glued to the door to the house. She didn’t even have to take his pulse because the large vein on his neck was beating so hard, it was visible with the naked eye. 

She smiled when he looked back at her. “You’re all done. Help me make dinner? Maybe his highness will have calmed down enough from his tantrum by the time we are done.” 

He frowned at her. “Please don’t talk about him as if he was a naughty child. He is the leader of our order and the paragon of what every soldier under him is striving to achieve.”

Moira sighed. “Maybe, once upon a time. But from what I can see, you’re the only one who believes this to be true right now.” 

*~*

After Danse changed his shirt, he and Moira sat outside, peeling tatos before throwing them into a large metal pot which sat between them on the porch. 

Moira kept her eyes on the task when she said. “You know he has given up, right?” 

He looked at her, clearly surprised. “He has suffered a crushing defeat at great personal cost. It’s to be expected that he-“

“No,” she shook her head. “Listen to me, he has given up. I’ve seen men like this before, and maybe I had heard the name Arthur Maxson before you showed up on my door step. All he was, all he is, is centred around his strength, his lineage, and that up to now, he has never lost. He is a broken man but-“

“But?”

“I think you can heal him.” 

Danse mouth dropped open before he closed it with an audible clack, eyes darting around as if he was searching for the answer but couldn’t see it. Eventually, he asked, “How?”

Moira fixed him with a hard stare. “You love him, don’t you?”

Danse froze and closed his eyes. Hands balled into fists, and after a very long minute he almost imperceptibly nodded, only once, but she saw it. 

She reached out and gently touched Danse’s arm. “I’m not saying love is a magical cure, but it’s your best shot.” 

“I-no, you’re wrong. Thank you for all your help but the Elder will make a full recovery and then mount a counteroffensive once we have regrouped in the Capital Wasteland. The Institute may have won the Commonwealth but this is where we will stop them.”

Moira shook her head. “I admire your unwavering loyalty, but I think you’ll find that at this point you’re the only one who believes he is worthy of it.” 

Danse got up and wiped his hands on his trousers. He briefly closed his eyes, “I don’t believe you.”

Moira growled in frustration. “Listen-“ But Danse cut her off. 

“And please keep what we have discussed to yourself, some of that information was of a personal nature. I would appreciate your discretion. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll do a perimeter check before dinner.” 

She watched him sling his laser rifle over his shoulder and walk into the woods again. 

“And here I had thought, you’d be the easier one, M7. Clearly, I was wrong!” 

This was going to be a lot more complicated than she had anticipated. 


End file.
